“I could carry him for you.” Haakan turned from his study of the western horizon when she came out the door.
“I . . . I don’t know. He’s not used to strangers.” Ingeborg looked from the man to the child who clutched her around the neck. “He can walk, but it takes so long to go the distance with his toddling steps. Besides, he gets mud all over.”
“I can ride him piggyback.” Thorliff stopped throwing the stick to Paws long enough to volunteer.
“Here, den lille guten, come for a ride.” Haakan extended his hands, palm up.
Ingeborg thrilled to hear him use her very words for this little one, the first child of her own womb. She held Andrew loosely and leaned slightly forward in encouragement.
Andrew studied the face of the man, as if trying to learn his character through the inspection. He wiggled in his mother’s arms, clamping an arm around her neck for an anchor and waving a pudgy fist in the air.
“Go on, son, it’s all right.” Ingeborg spoke softly, laying her cheek against his.
Andrew sighed as though he’d made a major decision and leaned forward, grasping Haakan’s thumb with one hand. The grin showed all five of his teeth and was accompanied by the incessant drool that went along with teething.
Haakan settled the baby on his hip, wrapped in a strong arm, and they headed across the field to the sod house about a hundred yards away.
“The boundary line between the two homesteads goes right down the middle here, and this way we are able to help each other more quickly. The first year on the homestead, we all lived in the one soddy we built later that summer. Roald and Carl first spent all the time they could breaking sod, since a house wasn’t as necessary.”
“What did you live in?”
“The wagon. Once we could sleep on the ground, it was much easier. Baby Gunhilde was born on the ship coming over, so that first winter in the soddy we had four grown-ups and two children.”
“And you are still friends?” Haakan shook his head in amazement.
“More than friends. Kaaren and I are deeper than sisters. We saved each other and fought together for our sanity—and our salvation.” Ingeborg didn’t elaborate any further. Instead she pointed to a spiral of smoke still farther north. “It is easier now with more neighbors. Why, Kaaren taught school during the good days of fall after the harvest was done and during the winter. Agnes Baard taught us all to speak English.”
“You do speak English?”
“Ja, somewhat. But Norwegian is much easier yet. There are so many words I do not know, and those I learn, I soon forget.”
“Then we will speak English.” Haakan bounced the baby to make him laugh.
“Velkommen. Velkommen.” Kaaren met them before they’d even reached the door.
The greeting almost took away the concern Haakan’s statement caused. Why was it men had a habit of always giving orders like that? Could a man help her and not take over? Was it possible?
Ingeborg returned the greeting and introduced their new relative, but the questions kept bubbling up like stew set on the stove to simmer.
Norway
I cannot bear to let him go.”
Gustaf Bjorklund rolled over under the quilts that cocooned the aging couple and wrapped an arm around his shivering wife. uBut we have no choice. They need him in Amerika, Ingeborg and Kaaren. They cannot save the land without men to help them. If they lose the land, we lost our fine sons for naught.”
“It is too high a price.” Bridget wiped her tears on the pillow slip.
“But we knew when they left we would never see them again. I thought we understood that.”
“Ah, but, Gustaf, just knowing they walked the same earth kept Roald and Carl within my heart. Now they are gone, and so is a part of my heart.”
“But . . . but we will see them again. They are not gone forever.”
“I believe that too, but . . .” She sighed, a mother’s sigh that sobbed of love and loss. “Mayhap in some small corner of my mind, I dreamed I would see them again on this earth. That one day, before we died, we, too, would journey to that new land and visit our sons and their sons.”
“You want to leave Norway and move to Amerika?” Gustaf shot straight up in bed. “Surely you don’t mean that.”
Bridget laid a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back under the warmth of the goose down quilt. “Nei, I could not leave our home here, not for good. But to visit, ja, that I could do.”
“You would make that long journey, visit, and then return?” Gustaf choked on the words, as if they were too tough to chew let alone swallow. “You think we are made of gold, then?”
She shook her head and sighed again. “Surely, I of all people know that is not true. But I talked with Solvig today. She and Haldor are going to Amerika. And not to stay either. She says she was born Norwegian, and she will die Norwegian, in her own land, in her own bed. But they will see their children again before they die.”
“We do not even have the money to pay for all of Hjelmer’s ticket, let alone fares for both of us. Besides, if we had so much ready kroner, we have two daughters who talk of marrying men in Amerika, and they haven’t emigrated there yet either.” He rolled over so his back was to her. “Go to sleep, Bridget. You must have been sipping the dandelion wine or some such.”
Bridget rolled over on her back and let the tears leak out the corners of her eyes and into her ears. Why was wanting to see her children again such a terrible thing? Just because they lived halfway around the earth, should she put her love for them out of her mind and heart as if they’d never been? Is that what Gustaf did?
Since Johann and his wife Soren had yet to have children, and Kaaren’s babies had died in the influenza, little Thorliff and Andrew were her only grandchildren. Ingeborg wrote so seldom. How were they? Thorliff would be seven, nei almost eight, by now. And Andrew, she knew, had the Bjorklund eyes, and Ingeborg hadn’t cut his curls yet. Thank the good Lord for Kaaren who kept them informed. They were growing up without their bestefars and bestemors. Ingeborg’s parents could no more leave for Amerika than could she and Gustaf. They still had small children at home.
She let the dream of visiting continue. They weren’t too old for the journey, were they? Other than a twinge or two in the knees when the fog set in, she had never been one to complain. And Gustaf, why, he could still work circles around the younger men. And if he didn’t want to work on a farm, surely there were townspeople who wanted fine furniture or had things in need of repair. Since Johann had taken over much of the farming chores, Gustaf had spent more of his time with his wood tools. It was a shame that many of the trunks he so lovingly created had emigrated and left them behind.
She sighed again. Surely she wasn’t thinking of emigrating. Surely she wasn’t. She was thinking only of visiting, wasn’t she?
Hiding her lack of sleep behind a ready smile and the knowledge that Hjelmer would soon be leaving, Bridget bustled about the kitchen preparing breakfast. By the time the porridge was set with thick cream and the coffee poured, the others had trooped to the table. So few remained at home. Johann and his wife, Soren, Hjelmer who couldn’t wait to leave, Augusta who hired out so often they rarely saw her, and Katja the baby, who was only twelve. Bridget had finally removed one of the leaves of the table so it wouldn’t stretch so far, an empty reminder of those no longer present.
Before she sat down, she had counted the kroner and the coins in the octagonal box set high in the cupboard. She brought the red, tightly lidded container to the table with her. Gustaf looked at her with one raised eyebrow before folding his hands for grace.
“I Jesu navn, går vi til bords . . .” The age-old words echoed around the table as they all joined in. At the “amen,” Hjelmer reached for the plate of sliced bread in the middle of the table.
Taking two pieces and passing the plate on to his sister, he eyed the box in front of his mor. The money for his ticket, what there was of it, lay hidden in that box. All of them had been contributing whateve
r they could earn. As it had for the others before him, his passage to Amerika was taking all the family resources.
“I’ll pay you back, you know.” Hjelmer spoke around a mouthful of porridge.
“Like the others?” Gustaf frowned at his youngest son. “You think you will do so well you can just send money back to Norway immediately?”
Hjelmer had the grace to duck his head.
“You think the others have not done their best, even to giving their lives?”
As his father’s voice rose in volume and deepened at the same time, Hjelmer shook his head.
Bridget put her hand on her husband’s arm. These two, they did not always see eye to eye. Perhaps she should have been more strict with this youngest son, but with his merry laughter and teasing spirit, he’d been able to get around her more than the others. Each of their children was so different in temperament, how could it be thus when they all grew up in the same house, and she tried to treat each of them the same?
But in appearance, Hjelmer was a younger version of Carl, with dark blond hair that still curled when damp and shoulders not yet widened with manhood. And like the others, the Bjorklund eyes of deep blue caused the neighborhood girls to look at him with hope in their eyes. The fishing boat had left its mark on him in the T-shaped scar to the outside of his right eye. Katja said it would drive the girls wild.
And now, Bridget had watched him since he returned from Onkel Hamre’s fishing boat. The experience hadn’t taken the starch out of him as his father had hoped. Instead, he’d been very good at things of the sea, or so Hamre said. Gustaf said he thought they received such a good report because Hjelmer kept even the hardened fishermen laughing.
“I’m sorry, Far, that’s not what I meant at all,” Hjelmer apologized.
Gustaf glowered from beneath bushy eyebrows. His very beard seemed to quiver at the supposed insult. “I think this Dakota Territory will take you down a peg or two. The Bible says, ‘Blessed are the meek.’ You must keep that in mind. A little humility is good for the soul.”
“Yes, Far.” Hjelmer nodded.
Bridget shook her head. She was never sure with this son if his instant contrition went deeper than the skin on his face or not.
The rest of the meal passed in silence, since none of the others wanted to incur the wrath of their father.
When Johann started to rise, Bridget gave a small shake of her head, and he settled back in his chair. She cleared her throat, a signal that she had something to say. All eyes fastened on her.
Opening the box, she began to speak. “You know how often we have counted this store of ours. With the additions of last week”—she smiled at each of them in thanks for their contributions—“we now have almost enough. When you deliver those two trunks—the paint is now dry enough—and get paid, that income, along with the money from the linens Soren so beautifully embroidered, will leave us lacking only funds for food.”
“I can work for that. I know I can.” Hjelmer let his words trail off at the look Gustaf shot his way.
Bridget continued as if no one had interrupted. “The same family that ordered the trunks has asked if I will sell my spinning wheel, and I said yes. The offer was too good to refuse.”
“Your spinning wheel! Mor, not that. You said you would never sell it.” Hjelmer half rose to his feet. He looked from his mother to the spinning wheel that sat in the corner, always in a place of honor. Gustaf had made it for her as a wedding present, and the song of the wheel had been a lullaby to all the babies, first in the cradle and later at their mother’s knee.
Bridget sent Gustaf a look pregnant with a plea for understanding.
Gustaf raised one bushy eyebrow, and his eye flickered in a wink. “I will make her another. A new one of cherry wood, no longer scarred by years of use and the bangings of children.”
“Perhaps they would wait and take the new one.” Hjelmer stumbled over his words.
“Ja, and miss the boat they are so anxious to board. Would you wait?” Gustaf placed his hand over that of his wife. “I will begin immediately when I return from delivering the trunks, one of which will include the spinning wheel.”
Hjelmer sank back down in his chair. Was this voyage already costing more than he could afford to pay?
Gustaf looked around the table. “Can anyone think of anything else that might be sold?”
Soren shook her head. “Nei, but I will begin to bake the sea biscuits that Onkel Hamre requires for his fishing fleet. Hjelmer can chew on those all across the sea and even in the new land. He won’t starve.”
“If he doesn’t lose them,” Katja said, covering her chuckle with both hands.
Hjelmer glowered at her as he sat down again at the table. He took the last slice of bread off the plate and covered it with apple butter. “I haven’t lost anything for a long time.”
“You will have to watch out for those who take advantage of emigrants like yourself. Remember what Ingeborg wrote about the ways people trick innocent ones out of money and goods, even their tickets.”
“Far, I will be careful. I’m not some dumbhead like the Hagen boys.”
“ ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’ ” Gustaf’s words carried the voice of doom. “Don’t you forget that.”
Within a week, Hjelmer found himself at the port of Kristiansand, waiting for the ship to begin boarding. He kept one bag thrown over his shoulder and clenched the other with fingers of iron. His little sister’s teasing words “Don’t lose your things” still irritated him. It was true he had lost a number of things through the years; but he had become a man since then, and a man didn’t misplace or lose the very things that would keep him alive and well, things like food and clothing, tickets and money. He couldn’t wait to write her a letter from Dakota Territory in Amerika to say he had arrived safe and well with all of his possessions.
As he followed the other heavily burdened emigrants down into the hold of the ship, he shuddered at the darkness and the dank smell. Would the ship from Liverpool to New York be this bad?
The pitching North Sea didn’t bother him, only the feeling of being boxed in. But the train trip across England opened new vistas undreamed of. He felt like a child with his nose plastered to the window, trying to see all the perfectly ordered farms, the hedgerows, and the compact fields of green grass or dark soil prepared for spring planting. His brief glimpses of dirty factory towns and puffing mills made him grateful for the clean air of home.
The ship, while not the largest berthed along the docks of Liverpool, made all the others he’d boarded so far seem more like rowboats. Three smokestacks were added to the sailing masts and rigging, promising a swift voyage. Like cattle, the emigrants were herded aboard and down to the dark hold. Steerage, the least costly way to travel, had sounded like an adventure, but now, Hjelmer felt his first quiver of doubt. While the bite of disinfectant overlaid other smells, the stink of vomit, excrement, and despair permeated the wood and thus the air. Open hatches let in a semblance of fresh salt air, but the boy wasn’t deceived.
Babies wailed, women and children cried, and fathers tried to keep their families together in the rush for the bunk room. Three and four tiers high, sized like roughhewn coffins rather than beds, the bunks filled the space. Aisles so narrow that a man’s wide shoulders scraped on both sides divided the remainder of footage.
“They treat the cattle better’n us, and we paid good money for these tickets.” The man who’d claimed the bunk below Hjelmer’s muttered his complaint.
Hjelmer nodded. He heaved himself up into the space he’d staked out as his own to let a family of four squeeze by. How he wished he had been at the head of the line and grabbed a bunk where he could at least see the sky when one of the hatches was opened. The dark seeped from the walls like a malevolent beast seeking to destroy all hope. How could he handle the dark and cramped quarters for seven days, and that only if they weren’t delayed by storms? Kerosene lamps guttered from posts on the main aisle, their stench adding one more layer
to the stew of odors.
After the last emigrants made their way down the companionway, the rumble of the steam engines that already made the floorboards quiver changed timbre. The hatches slammed closed, and with a shudder the huge screws commenced to turn, and the ship eased away from the dock.
Someone began to pray in a loud voice. The language was German as far as Hjelmer could tell, and the tone held fear and foreboding.
Hjelmer piled his bags at one end of his bunk and leaned against them, stretching out his legs. While he had a book to read, the light was far too dim for such an activity, likewise for the carving of the bird he’d started while waiting in line. Never one to be idle, he felt himself begin to fidget by the time the vessel reached the open sea.
He knew when that happened because he felt the difference in wave pitch. His months on the North Sea with Onkel Hamre had taught him much about the weather and waves. The huge steamer plowed through the swell, but not without some rise and fall motion. It wasn’t long before the smell of vomit dominated the air, already dank from the number of people breathing, coughing, and crying.
A little girl in the bunk across from him hadn’t stopped her tears since they boarded.
Hjelmer thought to Katja at home. She would look on the voyage as a grand adventure and soon be entertaining all the children within earshot with the stories that flowed from her fertile mind.
A sigh of relief went up when the hatches were opened and one of the ship’s crew bellered, “All you down there, line up and come topside while the weather holds.”
Someone must have understood his words, because as soon as a few climbed the steep passageway, others followed. Hjelmer grabbed his carving and knife and joined the line. He should have practiced his English as Roald had written, but no one on the fishing boat spoke the new language, and he’d not bothered to locate a teacher once he returned home.
Lauraine Snelling - [Red River of the North 02] Page 6
